


night sky holds the moon

by saffronHeliotrope



Series: new worlds for the weary [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Karkat's vanilla kink, M/M, Sheathplay, Tentabulges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:50:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saffronHeliotrope/pseuds/saffronHeliotrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh my god, Sollux,” you breathe as a little more of your bulge squirms out. You’re lightheaded and a little lost. You’ve messed around before, gotten each other off, but this is something new, something more.</p>
<p>“Somebody’s eager,” he says, flashing you a grin full of razors.</p>
<p>“Shut up,” you bluster, blushing. “Just... keep... doing that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laylah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/gifts).



> _Fold yourself against me_  
>  _like a paper bird_  
>  _tonight we'll fly awhile_  
>  _just give me the word_  
>  _and hold on to me_  
>  _like I hold on to you_  
>  _a steeple holds a bell_  
>  _the night sky holds the moon_  
>  \- [Josh Ritter](http://youtu.be/ifnKEBAYzRA)
> 
> This was written as a birthday present for the marvelous [Laylah](http://www.cyphercat.tumblr.com), whose work has been such an inspiration to me. And the little coda is for [tatterdemalionamberite](http://www.tatterdemalionamberite.tumblr.com), who expressed such enthusiasm over the sheath business.

You’re both working on the new solar energy collector and you finally get the damn thing connected up and it looks like it’s actually going to stay fixed this time, when your fierce sense of accomplishment runs headlong into how amazing he looks when he’s sweaty and flushed gold and _happy_ that you can’t stand it anymore, so you grab him and just fucking kiss him.

And with Sollux you never know -- sometimes he’s just as likely to throw you across the room with his brainlasers as he is to kiss you back -- but this time he makes that particular hungry delighted whimper and shoves his tongue in your mouth.

In half a heartbeat you have him pushed against the primitive control panel with a knee between his legs and your hands in his hair and your pump biscuit going a mile a minute. “Fuck, KK,” he breathes against your lips, “I thought you’d never ask.” And that’s enough to get you going for real; you feel the familiar sweet warmth spreading through your nook and from the way he ruts against you you’re betting he feels the same.

You’ve clearly done quite enough work for the day. You push and jostle and snap at each other all the way back to his hive, chosen by tacit agreement because he, wretched hermit that he is, chose to live on the outskirts of your straggly little rag-tag excuse for a settlement, and for better or worse you seem to collect idiots and hangers-on no matter what you do, meaning that your little makeshift lawnring abuts four others, and you don’t particularly want any company that isn’t Sollux right now. He elbows you and you try to trip him; he almost takes your knee out from under you and you shove him hard in the side. It almost feels normal and platonic and you wonder if you just imagined those moments in the hut under the solar panels but then he gets his long fingers up under the hem of your shirt and you shiver when his claws skate over your bare skin.

Once he gets the door of his hive closed behind you, he’s on you in an instant, pushing you flush against the wall, grinding up against you with his hands all over you. Your bulge is swelling in your sheath as if it thinks it could tunnel straight through your jeans to get at him. You tug at his shirt, and he yanks it up over his head and tosses it away. Desperate for skin, you clutch at him, and he kisses you sweet and sloppy, all nipping fangs and bifurcated tongue, until you’re dizzy.

That’s when he drops to his knees, pushes your shirt up to kiss at your belly. His hands slide up under your shirt, all the way up your chest and down again. He traces delicately over your grubleg scars, and the prickle of his claws is a delicious contrast with the unexpected softness of his lips as he kisses and licks along the waistband of your jeans. You bite back a moan out of habit, then realize, _we’re alone, no one’s listening, fuck it,_ and let the sound out. He looks up at you approvingly, holding your eyes as he undoes your pants.

He drags your jeans and boxers down all at once, and when he leans in and actually mouths at the opening of your bulgesheath, you think you might spontaneously combust. He drags his tongue up the length of your slit, once, twice, again, then does something flickery-fluttery with his tongue and you feel yourself dilating helplessly. Your head drops back against the wall with a _thunk_ and you grab at his shoulders to hold yourself up. He hums against you, low and lovely. That’s enough to coax out the first inch of your bulge, and he chirrs deep in his thorax and licks at the sensitive questing tip.

“Oh my god, _Sollux,”_ you breathe as a little more of your bulge squirms out. You’re lightheaded and a little lost. You’ve messed around before, gotten each other off, but this is something new, something more.

“Somebody’s eager,” he says, flashing you a grin full of razors.

“Shut up,” you bluster, blushing. “Just... keep... doing that.”

And then he flattens his hand low against your belly so that the tip of your bulge pushes between his fingers, but he presses down and pinches just enough against the slit of your sheath so that no more of your bulge can push out. You gawp down at him in disbelief, and he grins up at you, then closes his lips around the wriggling tip and sucks gently.

Your brain slams to a halt and you buck fruitlessly against him, your bulge swelling and trapped. That high keening whine is coming from your own squawkblister, it would seem, but you can’t be bothered to try to stop it, not when Sollux’s mouth is steadily dismantling your higher brain function and your nook picks up the deep maddening throb of your frustrated bulge.

Your knees wobble and you grab a fistful of his hair to try to steady yourself. He actually chuckles, the bastard, licking and sucking and teasing at the delicate tip of you. You squirm, helpless, your bulge longing to lash, and then he slips his other hand up between your thighs and pushes two fingers into your nook.

You almost come on the spot. “Jegus, Sollux, what the _fuck_ ,” you grit out, trying to hold it together. He hums again, smiling against your skin. The way it feels with his fingers hooked inside you, pressing up against your desperately swollen bulge through the wall of your nook -- you’re aching, too full and too empty all at once, all in the wrong places, and he’s _playing_ with you, he’s _loving_ this.

You need more -- you’re going to explode or scream or cry like a wiggler -- you buck your hips against him and get nowhere, you grind down on his fingers and get nowhere, you shove your shoulders helplessly against the wall and get nowhere. With awkward squirming and stomping you manage to kick your way out of your pants, and as soon as your feet are free he pulls his fingers from your nook and slings your leg up over his shoulder so he can get closer. Holy shit, your nook is _right_ in his face. His fingers go right back where they were and you howl.

Your skin must be lit up all over with a fiery flush, but you can’t look away as he laps slowly and showily from where his fingers press into your nook up to the trapped and desperate tip of your bulge. Your red is impossibly vivid on his tongue. The sight makes your bulge give a fruitless squirm inside you against his fingers. You trill instinctively at him as your standing leg wobbles -- _help me, hold me_ \-- and he presses you mercilessly to the wall.

Your bloodpusher is thundering in your ears and you can’t get a deep breath. You’ve got one hand splayed and scrabbling against the wall for balance and with the other you get him by the horns, fingers hooking into the gap between the small and large ones, thumb stroking firm and heavy up the outer curve. He moans open-mouthed over your bulge tip.

“Please,” you gasp out, “oh, please, oh _please.”_

And that must be the magic word, because he pulls back just enough and the pressure of his hand on your slit eases up. You nearly double over with a sob as your bulge ripples out between his fingers, heavy and swollen. It coils along his cheek, leaving a smear of sticky red, and while you pant and shiver and clench on his fingers and try not to come from the sheer relief of it, he swipes his hand over his cheek, locks his eyes with yours, and licks his fingers clean.

Your knee gives way and he catches you as you slide down the wall. “What... the...” you stammer, clinging to him. “Where the... fuck did you learn... Sollux, I... _fuck_...”

“God, KK, look at you,” he says. His fingers slip out of you and his hand slides up to cup your bulge, which twines hard around his fingers. You give a wrecked little sob when he squeezes; you need more, right now. You fumble awkwardly at his fly.

He takes your hands in his. “Not in here,” he says. “C’mere. I have something to show you.”

Your legs can only barely be persuaded to work but you follow him back into his hive, back into the little room where he sleeps. But instead of his usual pile under the window, there’s --

“Is that a concupiscent platform?” you scrape your brain cells together to say in disbelief.

“Just built it,” he says, tugging you into his arms, nipping at the soft skin below your ear. “Wanna try it out?”

You’re not sure whether the _God, yes_ makes it past your lips before you’re pushing him backward onto the platform. You don’t know where or how he got or made a mattress, but after weeks of awkward makeouts and sleeping rough in piles it feels _wonderful,_ and he’s so gorgeous spread out in front of you. You scramble at his fly and finally drag his pants down off his narrow hips. His bulge is out, smearing translucent yellow across his stomach.

“Impatient much?” he says as you push him farther back on the platform, kneeling over him, but his voice is a little breathless.

“Yeah, and who got me that way, you stupendous _literal_ bulgetease?” That beautiful gold flush rises in his cheeks when you take his bulge into your hand. You let the bifurcated tips wind around your fingers, and when you rub your thumb into the sensitive split, he tips his head back and moans.

You can’t wait a moment longer, and when the tip of your bulge strokes over his rapidly-opening nook, he parts his legs eagerly. “Want you in me, KK,” he breathes, and you shift closer, bending his leg back with a hand behind his knee, pressing toward him. Your bulge buries itself in him and you sob with satisfaction. He’s tight and whimpering and perfect, and you know you’re a stretch for him all at once like this, and you also know he likes it that way. His muscles ripple around you and you twist a little deeper into him and then you can’t think about anything at all.

He tugs at your shirt and you wrestle it off. His bulge twists and coils between your stomachs. His claws skate and prickle over your skin; you can’t take all the stimulation at once, and grab his wrists, pressing his hands back into the mattress on either side of his head. And he doesn’t seem to mind that at all; in fact, he chirrs and whines and arches beneath you. “Fuck, KK, _yes,_ ” he manages.

So that’s something he likes. You file that interesting bit of information away.

Or you would, if you were anywhere remotely close to the headspace for pushing around bits of information instead of fucking the daylights out of your... your... best friend. Fuck buddy. Thank-jegus-we-survived-the-end-of-the-world fling. Whatever you are.

Enough thinking.

You drive into him, and your bulge -- still throbbing from his stunt earlier -- curls deep and hard into his nook. His body is a live wire and you hear the faint staticky crackle of psionics across his skin, arcing between his horns. You are terribly close already, but your nook is an empty ache. You want -- you’ve never tried, but you want so badly --

The moan he lets out is just the kick of courage you need. You let go of his wrists and sit back, pulling him upright into your lap, and he’s right there with you, because as soon as he gets situated his bulge goes searching downward. You have to pull out a little to give him space, but it’s ok, because he reaches down under you and actually guides his bulge toward your nook with his fingers, which is just stupidly hot, and then the tips are writhing up into you and you want to die with the perfection of it.

It works -- you weren’t sure it could ever really work except with double-jointed freak-bulged porn actors and deceptive camera angles, but it works. You sit back, spreading your knees wider, and he slides closer so that you can stuff each other deeper. Your whole pan -- your whole _self_ \-- is lit up with the sensation of it.

Together you settle into a slow maddening push-me-pull-you rhythm. You’ve got your arms locked hard around his slender frame and he dips his head to kiss you, soft and greedy, breathless. “So good,” you gasp into his mouth. “Fuck, Sollux, you feel _so good_.”

“KK,” he keens. You trap his lower lip between your teeth. You can’t tell where you end and he begins. His bulge tips stroke you deep inside, and your bulge spasms hard against the walls of his nook. He cries out and goes rigid in your arms, and you feel him pumping out his genetic material inside you. You have one brilliant moment to think, _fuck, yes, feels so perfect_ , and then it triggers your own release and your pan goes searingly white.

When you open your eyes you’re both sweaty and panting. His forehead is pressed to yours and his eyes are an inch from yours, red and blue. You give him what you’re sure is an utterly dopey smile, drunk as you are on pheromones and endorphins. “Wow,” you say stupidly.

He just smiles at you, though, a remarkably snark-free smile. “Yeah. That was great.”

He’s not letting you go, so you just close your eyes and breathe and listen to his breath, the slowing beats of his pusher. You feel so full of his material, teetering on the edge of too full, and the pressure is heavy and sweet in your abdomen. You want to stay like this as long as you can.

Sollux shifts his hips, though, and his bulge slips out of you, and yours out of him. Your nook ripples with a little contraction and you squeeze hard to keep from spilling. “Shit, I need to get to the trap,” you say hurriedly, hand protective over your belly. “Or... or outside, I guess.”

“No, it’s ok, I’ve got it,” he slurs, remarkably unconcerned for the state of his new mattress. He leans over to feel around under the edge of the platform, but when he comes up your jaw drops open.

He’s holding a filial pail. An honest-to-god, standard-issue, Imperial collection pail, with a concupiscent red heart stamped on the side. You goggle at him. “Where the fuck did you get that?”

He shrugs, turning it in his hands. “It was in my sylladex when we came through. I figured it might come in handy sometime.” He looks at you shrewdly, one corner of his mouth twisting up in a surprisingly hesitant smile. “And I thought you’d like it.”

You do like it. You do like it very, very much, and you feel like you shouldn’t, so you bluster at him. “Like I want to be reminded?” you snarl. “You do know that filling one of these would have been tantamount to suicide for me, right? Fuck the drones and fuck mandated quadrants and _fuck_ the Empire.”

“Fuck the Empire,” he says agreeably. “Which is why we’re all glad it’s gone. And right now I’ve got a nookful of your material in me and I want to use this pail for its real purpose for once in my life. You joining me?”

You’re gobsmacked. You swallow hard and say, “Oh... ok.”

He sets the pail on the platform between you. You’re shaking a little as you kneel up over it. He steadies you and helps you into position, then grins at you and swiftly leans in to kiss you low on your belly, right above your bulge, right where the pressure from his genetic material has grown deliciously unbearable. You trill at him, helpless and off-guard. There’s a little ache somewhere behind your breastbone.

He kneels up, facing you over the pail. You get him by the hips and pull him closer. Your bulges are still out -- with the material in you they have nowhere to retract to -- and they seem to know what to do, twining around each other as you press together. Sollux sighs into your ear. You wrap your arms around his waist, and he buries his fingers in your hair. You turn your head and kiss him slowly and deeply, the way you’ve always wanted to, the way you’re usually too insecure and he’s too impatient for. His hips roll against yours and you moan at the pressure in your abdomen.

His hands work their way up to your horns. He curls his fingers around them, and the warmth and vibration of his touch echoes all down your spine. You feel so surrounded, so held.

“Go ahead, KK,” he whispers against your lips.

You shudder, biting down on a whimper as your nook ripples with warm contractions. At the sound of the first few drops plinking into the pail, you hide your face in his shoulder. It’s a sound you’ve heard all your life in romcoms and pornos and even in godawful Imperial propaganda schoolfeeding films, terribly familiar and wrenchingly intimate. You never ever thought you’d be doing this yourself, sharing this with someone, no matter what you used to fantasize. It’s horrible and wonderful and terrifying; you’re shivery and all locked up.

But he holds on to you, palming your horns, bulge coiling with yours, and when he trills at you through his own release your body responds instinctively in kind. The warmth ripples out from your nook and through your whole body; your limbs go heavy and he pulls you closer. You cling to him and chirr softly at him as your nook empties, material mingling with his. It feels so good and so _right_ , doing what your genes tell you to do, and your body is rewarding you, and you don’t even care that you’re being played, you just let yourself feel it.

When you’re both done, Sollux reaches between you and takes the pail, setting it on the floor as carefully as if there really were a drone coming for it later. Watching him, you feel that twinge in your thorax again. Then he flops on the platform and pulls you down after him. You curl into his side, feeling boneless and floppy and thoroughly pailed and not a little shaken up.

“You’re uncharacteristically quiet,” he says after a moment. “I don’t know whether I should be enjoying it or worrying.”

You slap half-heartedly at him. “It was just. Intense. Is all.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t mock, doesn’t tease you; he just tightens his arm around you and toys with your hair, scratching gently around your hornbeds. It feels nice. Really nice.

“You’re not going pale on me, are you?” you snipe at him, and immediately wish you could bite your tongue clean off. It’s exactly like how your miserable past self used to ask him if you were still friends all the time. Come to think of it, given what’s just happened between you, _there’s_ a loaded question if you’ve ever heard one. You hate everything.

“Does it matter?” he answers, surprisingly non-defensively. “Fuck quadrants, right?”

You scowl against his shoulder. “It does matter,” you say quietly at last. “It matters to me.”

“Then, and I say this in a completely non-conciliatory way, calm your nub-horned self right the fuck down. I’m not pale for you, you romcom-addled moron. I’m flushed as flush can be. I’m flushed as Equius for musclebeast art and TZ for justice. I’m flushed as Strider’s weirdo lusus-clone for that creepy human doll thing. I’m flushed as our late great departed Empress, may she rot in oblivion forever, for a bedazzled culling fork. Shall I go on? More flushed than the lovely pink moon that will nevermore rise over Alternia. More flushed than a really flushed thing.”

You’re laughing helplessly into his side by the time he’s done. The twinge in your thorax has blossomed into warmth. God, you pity him so, so much.

You tell him so, and he says, “Finally,” and kisses you.


	2. coda

When you’ve kissed him into a limp cuddly stupor again, he lies back quiet against your shoulder.

Not quiet for long, though, not ever.

“So, seriously. Where did you learn that? That thing. You did. With your fingers over my. You know.”

You snicker at him. His face is glowing bright pink and you’d like to kiss the scowl right off the spot between his eyebrows, except that it’s so fucking cute. “That’s a nice trick, isn’t it? All I can say is, humans can be surprisingly kinky. And inventive.”

He stares up at you in disbelief. “What? Who... No, you know what, never mind. I don’t want to know.” He burrows into your shoulder again, then abruptly pops back up. “Was it Dave? No, no, I don’t want to know.”

“Dave? Are you kidding me? He’s nowhere near twisted enough to come up with that one.”

Relief flashes plainly across his face -- god, he’s such an open book, you can’t even stand it -- and then he scowls again, clearly running through possibilities in his mind.

You take pity on him, which is only appropriate. “Let’s just say that based on the evidence of my experience I’m willing to bet Kanaya’s got a kinky side none of us ever knew existed. I hope so, anyway.”

His eyes go big and round as teavessel plates. “ _Rose?_ ” he squawks.

“Mmm.”

You can practically see the wheels in his pan turning. “Pitch?”

“Mm _hmm._ ”

“Huh.” He lies back down again, pressing even closer to you. You nuzzle at him encouragingly. “Wow.”

“Yeah. Wow is accurate.” You devote the next few minutes to an entirely necessary exploration of the nape of his neck and the curve of his spine with your fingertips and claws. When he’s boneless and purring and draped over you, you say low in his ear, “So does that mean you don’t want me to do that again?”

He gives a little huff against your skin, then says quietly, “I never said that.”

You wrap your arms around him and bury your chuckle in the space between his horns, and feel like the luckiest troll in the new universe.


End file.
